


Between You and Gravity

by hushboys (taemin)



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taemin/pseuds/hushboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he opens his eyes, he wonders if he is dead or dreaming, because there's Hongbin, smiling down at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between You and Gravity

He doesn't really notice it's a problem until it happens for the third night in a row. Hongbin's sprawled out underneath him on the couch, one leg hooked up around Wonshik's thigh. They've fooled around a little, but never gone all the way. Wonshik's starting to get a complex. Every time he thinks yes, this is happening, Hongbin peels away, mouth red, shirt twisted. And the thing that drives Wonshik up a wall is the fact that he doesn't think he's alone in his disappointment—Hongbin's just as enthusiastic when it starts. Tonight—he'd even been the one to initiate it, had swung right into Wonshik's lap on the couch and kissed him until he couldn't think straight. Every time Hongbin pulls away, his eyes are apologetic, his breathing heavy. A little disheveled, a little undone, all because of Wonshik.

"I'm sorry, it's—it's getting late," he says, his lips lingering at the corner of Wonshik's mouth for a moment, still warm from all that kissing. He buttons up the snap on his jeans and rolls out from underneath Wonshik to land in a soft heap on the floor.

Wonshik runs a hand through his hair, trying not to pull it out by the fistful. He's—getting mixed signals here, and his dick is having a hard time (sometimes literally) trying to keep up.

"You sure you can't stay?" he asks, voice strained. He can _feel_ how uncomfortably hard he is, the way his pulse throbs right at the tip of his dick, aching for release—aching for Hongbin. He's going to have to take care of that once Hongbin leaves, because Hongbin _will_ leave—he never stays, no matter how many times Wonshik asks him to.

"Can't," Hongbin says, soft, predictable. He _does_ sound sorry, which makes Wonshik feel a little better, but not much. "I really, really can't."

"See you tomorrow, then?"

"Of course. First thing, bright and early." Hongbin's face splits into a beaming, beautiful smile, two perfect dimples in his cheeks. Wonshik fucking loves that smile. It takes his breath away every single time, even when he's so frustrated with blue balls that he could scream.

Hongbin lets himself out. Wonshik goes to the window and watches him leave through the front doors of Wonshik's building. Looks both ways, crosses the street. Disappears around the corner. Just like he always does.

Wonshik's hand drops to his crotch, still sporting a semi underneath his jeans. It's pathetic. He's been dating Hongbin for a week—although it feels like he's known him forever. And sure, maybe sleeping together right away is a little fast, even though Wonshik's never been one to wait—but he's just confused. 

He brings himself to release with a rough hand, his grip tighter than is usually comfortable for him. Afterwards, he stares at the perfect crescent shape of the teethmarks in his palm. He's just—so—frustrated—by Lee Hongbin. 

—

Hongbin's waiting for him the next morning at the coffee cart outside of the library, the place they always meet—the place they'd met entirely by chance, the place where Wonshik had accidentally spilled Hongbin's coffee and bought him a new one, promised to buy him one every day if he kept coming back because even though Wonshik's not normally that bold, Hongbin _is_ that handsome. 

Hongbin's incredibly bright-eyed despite the early hour. He's always a morning person. Maybe that's why he doesn't want to stay with Wonshik—he's worried about the quality of his sleep. Maybe he just hates sleeping in someone else's bed—that's understandable. Right?

He gives Wonshik the cup of coffee he'd bought for him and kisses him right there, in the middle of the street, without bothering to look over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching first.

It's stupid, though. Wonshik can't wrap his head around it. Hongbin's not ashamed of him during the daylight, but the minute the sun starts to set—he's a ghost. 

He tries to push his luck. "You coming over later?" Wonshik asks, trying to sound casual. "I've got to put in some time at the studio later, but I should be done by four or so."

Hongbin looks up from his own coffee. "Oh," he says, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "I don't—I'm busy later, sorry." His mouth scrunches with dissatisfaction.

"Oh. It's—okay. It's—you know. It's only been a week, I can't see you all the time. I get it. It'd be weird," Wonshik says, more to reassure himself than anything else. Hongbin slips his hand into the crook of Wonshik's elbow.

"Hey," he says, voice low enough that a passerby would have to stop to catch it. "I want to see you all the time, too."

"Why don't you come over after your thing, then?" Wonshik tries. "I'm a night owl anyway, I'm sure I could find some work to get done that I've been putting off—"

"I—don't think that's a good idea. I've gotta run," Hongbin says, glancing at the time on his phone. "We'll figure it out, okay? I'll see you tomorrow."

Wonshik watches him leave again, weaving through the crowd of students ambling to their nine o'clock classes. Even the stone cherubs atop the university's library seem to be laughing at Wonshik as he throws away his coffee cup and slouches away, fists buried deep in the front of his jacket.

—

It's still bugging him enough that he brings it up during studio later. They've got a nude model in—Taemin, again, which was fun enough the first time, because Taemin's a cool guy, except now he's dating Jongin, and Wonshik can't get the weird images out of his head every time Taemin angles his hips _just so_ and shoots a glance back in Jongin's direction. "It's not normal, right?"

"Is he saving himself?" Jongin asks, tongue poking between his lips as he struggles to concentrate on sketching out the musculature of Taemin's shoulders. 

"No, he's not saving himself," Wonshik retorts, disgusted. "He nearly came in his pants the first day just from making out, it can't be—I don't know, maybe he's just not into other stuff."

"Have you asked him about it? I mean, I don't even know the guy—I've never even heard of him, and I thought I knew everyone on this campus," Jongin says. 

"Or, just get used to jerking off every night thinking about your cute new boyfriend instead of actually doing anything about it," Taemin calls over, butting in. "We heard you last night."

Wonshik scowls and wipes his hand across Jongin's canvas, smearing the charcoal. 

Jongin yelps in protest. "What was that for? Taemin was the one who said it, not me."

"Oh, why are you so mad? You can probably fix it from memory," Wonshik says, feeling the phantom ache of a boner in his groin and wondering how much trouble he'd be in if he punched their nude model right in the middle of class. Somehow, he thinks the professor wouldn't be quite as understanding of his predicament.

—

They take him out drinking later, by way of apology. Wonshik drinks so much he doesn't even bother to check his phone to see if Hongbin has texted him. He doesn't care. See if he cares.

(He totally cares.)

"I don't get it," he says for the millionth time that night. Jongin tugs him off the bar stool and puts his hands on Wonshik's shoulders.

"We know. You deserve better, Wonshik. Just call him," he says. And then: "Are you going to be okay to get home by yourself? Taemin and I can walk you, but it's cold, and he lives in the other direction—"

"No, no, it's okay," Wonshik says, watching Jongin bundle Taemin underneath his arm and guide him out into the night. Jealousy burns hot in his gut. He wants that. He wants to go home to someone at the end of the night. Wants to go home to Hongbin.

Wonshik takes the long way home across campus on his way back from the bar. He pauses at the landscaped garden on the arts campus, the angel statue in the middle of the fountain, wrapped tight with ivy. He's never really noticed it before—can't remember it being there, really, but now he's captivated by it. It towers over the fountain, throwing a long shadow over Wonshik, stark and beautiful even though the night is cloudy and without stars. A perfectly sculpted face, one hand outstretched, reaching out. A pair of lovely swan wings sprouting from the statue's back. 

There's an inscription on a small brass plaque at the base of the statue, worn shiny. That something as eternal as metal or stone can disappear with the touch of living hands seems wrong to Wonshik, who suddenly has the urge to touch it anyway. 

He climbs up on the ledge of the fountain and leans over, trying to get a better look. His eyes keep blinking out of focus, bleary, and then sliding back in again. It occurs to him that maybe he's had too much to drink—more than he thought, trying to keep pace. For a moment he thinks the statue moves, and he wobbles unsteadily, ankles turning to jelly with all the alcohol in his bloodstream. 

He puts his hands out to brace for an impact in the fountain's water that does not come. When he opens his eyes, he wonders if he is dead or dreaming, because there's Hongbin, smiling down at him. The angel from the statue, cradling him in his wings.

—

Wonshik doesn't remember where he is or how he got there. One minute, he'd been in the garden—but hours must have passed, because he's lying in a bed that is not his own, and there's moonlight streaming in through curtains. 

He sits up. His head's _killing_ him, and his mouth is dry, but he's sober. He can remember flashes of the evening: Jongin and Taemin, mostly, but also climbing up on that fountain's ledge. The statue. _Shit, what did I drink?_

Still disoriented, he rises to his feet and stumbles through the bedroom door—

And stands in the doorway, mouth agape. Hongbin's wings— _wings, for fuck's sake_ —are silhouetted against the light the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling is throwing, all golden and warm. They flex, and then retract, folding up high on his back like a bird of prey's.

"You're awake. Are you okay?" Hongbin asks. His chest is bare—probably because there's just not a good way to get a shirt over a pair of wings, but still. Jesus. Just one more thing Wonshik realizes he's been missing out on. He feels a lancing pain across his skull as his brain tries to process what he's seeing, and then stalls out, unable to explain it. 

"What," he finally croaks. Hongbin laughs nervously, approaching Wonshik with his palms outstretched, trying to look unthreatening. It's pretty fucking hard to do that when you've got massive avian wings sprouting out of your back, defying all laws of nature.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I wanted to tell you. There's just no good way—I've never had to explain it before. It's never been a problem before. There's never been a—you." He licks his lips and his gaze drops to Wonshik's mouth, then back up to meet his stunned face. "Say something. Please. Anything. If you want me to just—if it's too weird, it's okay, I can—you know. Come get my stuff from your place tomorrow—or not, I mean, if you want me to send someone to get it—"

"What—" Wonshik tries again. Hongbin trails off, uncertain. Wonshik still looks stricken, but he's not _leaving_ , which is a good sign. He doesn't feel like leaving. He's rooted to the floor, entire body a question mark, leaning towards Hongbin, uncertain.

"What," Hongbin prompts gently. He slips his hand onto Wonshik's cheek, cups it. His hands are so warm, impossibly warm, like he's got liquid sunshine coursing through his veins. He waits for Wonshik to gather his thoughts, his dark brown eyes warm and inviting, the way they always are. He looks at Wonshik the same way he always does. Nothing's changed there.

"I don't—what. It's cosplay, right?" Wonshik manages. "They aren't—"

"It's not. They are."

"You didn't know what I—"

"Yes, I did."

"Is this—"

"Why I don't stay the night? Yes." Hongbin smiles at him, shy, hugs his upper arms. It's cute, but it's also—he's so casual, as if he's revealing something trivial, like, _I snore_ or _I have bad morning breath._ No, it's _I grow fucking wings at night._

"I just—thought I was freaking you out, and we were moving too fast. But this is—I've never—Can you even—"

"I've never tried," Hongbin admits. "I've come close with you, but I don't really know. And our timing's always so awful. If I could have you first thing in the morning, then we could figure it out without these—" He indicates the wings on his back. "But you're so busy…"

Wonshik looks at Hongbin, the way his hair falls in his eyes when he tips his chin to his chest. That smile of his, so wide—almost too big for his face, but perfect. Everything's perfect. Wonshik could spend hours watching Hongbin's face and still find it beautiful and familiar, the best thing he's ever seen. The only thing he wants to see. He remembers—falling, dizzy, and then his body lifting. Hongbin. 

Other things, too, things that Wonshik's just learning. The lean muscle of his stomach and the broad stretch of his shoulders, the taper of his waist. His pants—god, Wonshik wants those to go, too. Wants everything. Wants it now.

He reaches out. "Come here," he says, closing the distance between their mouths until he's staring at him from an inch away, cross-eyed. "This is—I want to try. I can't wait any longer."

Hongbin's eyebrows lift. "Are you sure?"

Wonshik kisses him in reply. Hongbin's hands jerk, unsure, and then come to rest on Wonshik's neck—then his chest—his hips. After a moment, he tips his head to the side, letting Wonshik lick his tongue past his lips, then nudges his thigh in between Wonshik's legs. Wonshik's pulse accelerates, feeling Hongbin through his sweatpants, half-hard already.

"So you can," he breathes. "If you want to."

"I do," Hongbin says, drawing him into the bedroom, flipping the lights off behind him. He steps out of his sweatpants and stands there in front of Wonshik, completely bare, cock rising towards his stomach. He looks—perfect. Perfectly human. Wonshik's seen a lot of nude models, practiced drawing the male form for hours on end, and Hongbin's a fucking work of art. Looks like something Michelangelo dreamed up, that old perv, right down to the rosy flush of Hongbin's cheeks and the way his wings tense and then relax every time Wonshik touches him.

"Can I—" Wonshik asks, his hand hovering over the joint of Hongbin's wing. He's remembering more now—how soft they were, how light he felt. Hongbin nods and unfolds them, spreading wide across the room. His span's—wider than this, really, but it's enough that Wonshik gets the picture. He skims a reverent hand along the downy feathers and notes the way Hongbin shudders and closes his eyes, Adam's apple jumping in his throat. His cock strains, and Wonshik would get down on his knees right there, but this is his chance. His first—maybe his only. He's going to do it right.

"Nobody's ever touched them before," Hongbin admits when Wonshik pulls his hand away. His voice is husky, shot with arousal even though Wonshik hasn't even gotten him wound up and shouting yet.

"Is it okay?" Wonshik asks. His headache's completely forgotten—or gone—he can't tell, and doesn't really care.

"God, yeah, it's incredible," Hongbin says. "But you—let me," he says, tugging Wonshik's shirt over his head. Wonshik steps out of his pants and underwear at the same time and kicks them away, impatient to get Hongbin on his hands and knees in front of him. It's frustrating—he'd love to look at his face, his lovely face, but it's just easier this way, and it stops him from being distracted by Hongbin's mouth, or the point of his chin, or the jut of his collarbone. 

Hongbin's body bows under Wonshik's touch, his wings stretching. Wonshik has to duck to avoid being bowled over, and then he's circling a lubed fingertip around Hongbin's entrance, murmuring soothing words into the small of Hongbin's back, kissing the skin there to keep him distracted from the initial sting as he pushes in. 

Hongbin gasps anyway, and then goes silent. Wonshik can feel him steeling himself for more, Hongbin's entire body as taut as a strung bow, and then Wonshik nudges the pads of his fingers a little deeper and Hongbin moans, loud, pushing back against Wonshik's hand.

"You okay?" Wonshik asks again, hesitating as he holds the condom packet between thumb and forefinger, ready to tear it open on Hongbin's say-so. Hongbin's body is incredibly responsive under his hands, but he doesn't want to presume, especially when—well—everything's new tonight. To both of them. He'd be content with just this, if it was what Hongbin wanted.

Hongbin hangs his head down and peers around his bicep, face sweaty, fringe hanging limply in his eyes. They're wide open though, a soulful, raw expression, like he's just so fond of Wonshik that words have escaped him. He nods. 

Wonshik lines himself up with Hongbin and takes a deep breath. He's wanted this—this and nothing else, for the past week, and now that he's getting it, albeit under incredibly different circumstances, he's freaking out a little bit. He's so hard for it that he's worried he's going to come the minute he seats himself inside Hongbin.

And the first slide is slow, and Hongbin's so tight even as his body eases open enough to allow Wonshik entry, and he's clutching at the sheets so hard Wonshik can see his knuckles going white. He stops when the tops of his thighs are flush with Hongbin's ass. Bends over, so his forehead comes to rest in between the wings.

"You feel incredible," Wonshik murmurs, kissing the ridge of Hongbin's spine. "I'm—wow, Hongbin. I'm so close already, you're so…" He trails off. He's literally holding back from orgasm through sheer willpower and gritted teeth. There's something about looking at Hongbin's winged back that's just unbelievable. "I didn't know I was into this," he admits, hand caressing the feathers of Hongbin's left wing. Hongbin groans, back arching, as aroused as if Wonshik's hand were stroking his cock, instead. "Is this wrong? It feels wrong."

Hongbin's body shakes with laughter, which feels weird, being inside Hongbin, feeling him laugh _around_ his cock, but also so amazing. Exactly why Wonshik had been drawn to him in the first place, that exuberance, that light. 

"You don't have to be gentle," Hongbin says, still chuckling. "I'm not as delicate as you think."

Wonshik thrusts into him a few more times, but can't stand not being able to look at his face anymore. Using the wings as grips—it's useful, gives him enough leverage to fuck Hongbin right through the mattress, if he were so inclined, but he just wants to see his face. He still doesn't know what Hongbin's face looks when he's happy like this.

Hongbin lies back against the bed, propped up by his wings folded underneath him. Wonshik feels dizzy, kneeling over Hongbin and looking down on him like he's a million miles below. Hongbin smiles, one of those dazzling smiles of his, and Wonshik remembers that weightless swooping feeling in his stomach when Hongbin had caught him. He feels it now, and hopes it'll never go away.

And he's right—about Hongbin's expressions when he's like this—it's amazing, it's beautiful, it's everything Wonshik's ever wanted. He keeps his eyes wide open and locked on Hongbin's face, cataloging the little satisfied smirk on his face, the way his eyes flick back in his head each time Wonshik swivels his hips and brushes against his prostate. And when he comes, he smiles again, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open, just slightly, just enough for Wonshik to lean in and whisper his name right against his lips as he follows Hongbin over the edge.

—

It's late in the morning when Wonshik wakes up again. He forgets where he is for a minute, and then he sees the outline of Hongbin's shoulders—now wingless, the smooth back of a young man—and remembers everything. Drinking—falling—the wings. Finally fixing the weirdness in their relationship, crossing that last bridge. No secrets, now—at least nothing that can compare to Hongbin's bombshell. 

Hongbin stretches and rolls over. Lies there, blinking sleep out of his eyes, a shy little grin quirked on his face. "Morning," he says. Wonshik pulls him in by the hip, slings a leg over him so their bare bodies are flush, two morning erections brushing against each other—enough for a suggestion, but not enough friction to finish anything.

"You sore?" Wonshik asks. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" Hongbin shakes his head. He licks his lips and nuzzles into Wonshik's space for a kiss, lingering and slow, that turns filthy as Hongbin nips at Wonshik's lower lip and pushes his tongue past his teeth.

Wonshik rolls onto his back, inviting Hongbin to come sit in his lap, but then stops him. There's something poking him from underneath the sheets—maybe the condom wrapper? He rummages around and pulls out a white feather from where it'd been tangled in the sheets.

Hongbin meets his astonished gaze and smiles. Wonshik sits up just as Hongbin reaches out to touch his face, and they kiss—sweeter, this time, less impatient. 

"It wasn't a dream," Wonshik says. 

"No," Hongbin agrees, kissing his forehead—his eyelids—his nose—his chin. Anywhere and everywhere, even the stubble on Wonshik's upper lip and his jawline, Hongbin kisses it all, tenderly, fondly. "It wasn't."


End file.
